It's about the release.

Jane: practice over i’ve got time before our game 

Jane: [image attached]

Lily: [missed FaceTime call from Jane] 

Jane: [image attached] [image attached]

Jane: for you for later

__

Jane: they just announced you’re a late scratch tonight? 

Lily: [2 missed calls from Jane] 

Jane: call me when you can please 

__

Lily: sorry was asleep 

Lily: watching game now

Lily: saw your goal

Lily: good assist to u from Pike 🤮

__

Lily: going to sleep again 

Lily: game is basically over so i will jinx it and say good win

Lily: will keep my phone on so you can call 

— 

The FaceTime request goes through and Shane squints as Ilya floods into view. Or rather, doesn’t. The screen is dark as Ilya murmurs a greeting. 

“Hey, sorry — you were asleep? I can’t see you. Are you okay?” 

“Sorry,” the dark screen sniffles and sheets shift. There’s some fumbling and then a click of bedside lamp and now Shane can see him. 

Ilya’s adjusting to lie down on his side. He must have turned over once Shane called because he’s got pillow-lines on his cheek and his curls are angled flat, pressed against invisible surface in the air. His eyes are sleepy, visible even through a video call, and there’s a flush to his cheeks and around his nose. 

He snuffles and itches two fingers under his nose, then coughs sharply. He doesn’t seem to be about to say anything else, even though Shane was waiting. 

“Are you okay?” he repeats, watching as Ilya’s fingers move from under his nose to press at the corner of his eye socket, massaging in circles. 

“Mmm. Will be fine,” he sounds hoarse, clearing his throat as he pauses, “just sick. I can sleep it off, yes?” 

“How sick? They wouldn’t let you play?” 

Ilya shakes his head, almost imperceptively. “You are asking information about players from other teams, Hollander? I will have to write the Commissioner about this.” 

He coughs, and Shane’s view shifts, presumably being placed down as he stares at Ilya’s ceiling. 

The sound of a tissue being pulled from a box, the flash of an arm across his screen, and then a muffled sneeze. It’s loud through the tinny speaker of his phone, and Shane hurries to turn down his volume as Ilya sneezes more, devolving into a fit offscreen. 

A relieved gasp for breath as Shane sees Ilya’s face for a second. His upper lip is shiny and the corners of his eyes are wet. Then all sound cuts out and he’s got a nice view of the ceiling again. Crown moulding him and Mom liked for Ilya’s place. 

“Bless you,” Shane says to the silence. He’s pretty sure Ilya muted his end of the call.

 Another tissue flashes across the screen. 

Then, the bottom of a glass. Clear liquid. Shane hopes faintly it’s water and not vodka. 

A beat and then the screen is tilting to Ilya’s face again as he settles back against his pillows. 

“Sorry. Thought you would not want to hear that,” he says, voice and background noise flooding back in. He sniffles again. Shane doesn’t think he’s imagining a glassy look, even through the screen.

“Are you okay?” Shane repeats again, distinctly annoyed somewhere under his concern; he hears how it leaks into his voice. 

Ilya groans, “I am fine, Hollander. Just sick, okay? Fever was what they would not let me play because.” 

He sounds so sick. His English is coming apart. Shane knows exactly what he means, but it’s something he flags sometimes. Sometimes he worries that Ilya intentionally or carelessly fumbles his words when he’s trying to keep him out. He can be very closed off like that. 

And he looks so sick. Shane’s heart aches. I’m Shane. Call me Shane. I love you. 

“I just wish I could be with you,” he whispers. He knows Ilya isn’t about to reply honestly right now, because Shane’s too far away to help. (That’s the easiest one to blame.) And Ilya hurts all the time, but hates to feel it. 

Ilya’s glance flicks back to the screen, face unexpectedly open. He rubs at his nose. “Me too, Shane.” 

Then he breathes, shaking off sentimentality forcefully, scrubbing his nose with a click click, “But you would hate to be with me. You would complain about me getting you sick and —“ he shakes his head harder, “—you know. You don’t miss me right now.” 

I would still miss you. I miss you right now so badly I’m afraid I might explode. But Shane isn’t sure he can say that. He’s worried it will make Ilya more sad. And it will make him more sad, too. 

He swallows. “Okay, just — sorry for calling, then. Get some sleep. I love you.” 

“Love you. Я Тебя Люблю.” 

Ilya looks at him for another long second, and Shane can’t hang up, even though that’s the social cue where he’s supposed to. 

After a brief eye-scrunch, Ilya gasps, “G – ghdd – nigh– hh–” 

And then the call ends abruptly. 

Shane takes a look at his reflection in his phone screen, blinks. Okay.

He can’t help texting him after. 

__

Jane: Goodnight.

Jane: I love you and feel better. 

Jane: I’m sorry you’re sick. 

__ 

Jane: I really wish I could hold you. 

__

The next morning, Shane is awakened before his alarm. 

“Hi?” he asks blearily in response to Ilya’s call. 

“Hi,” Ilya coughs down the other end of the line, “was just saying good morning. Couldn’t sleep that well. Sorry.” 

Shane starts to reply, but Ilya has hung up. Well, fuck. He might as well get up. 

__

An couple hours later –

Lily: fever broke now

Lily: sorry about this morning, wanted to hear you 

Jane: I like to hear you. I’m glad you’re feeling better. 

Lily: 🥹🥹

__

Jane: you were sneezing a lot last night. 

Jane: and how is your cough? 

Lily: better

Lily: kind of

Shane watches his screen bounce with ellipses from Ilya for much too long. He watches anyways.

Lily: i hate being sick

Jane: me too

Jane: i hate seeing you sick 

Lily: sorry

Jane: no 

Jane: i mean i guess i miss you a lot

Jane: fuck 

Lily: i miss you too 😙

__

Jane: i’m trying to say i hate when you’re sick because i want to make it better and i can’t because i’m far away

Jane: but i really want to. 

Jane: i don’t like 

Jane: wrong phrasing, sorry. 

Jane: i’m anxious about how you won’t tell me your symptoms and stuff

__

Lily: well, what would you like or

Lily: in your words, be anxious to know about? 

Lily: i cannot stop sneezing at all

Lily: i am coughing up half the lung i have left

Lily: you know because i smoke, not much there to work with 

Lily: i feel gross and sick and i miss you

Lily: i miss you so much i cried to sleep last night. thats why i called. 

Lily: just really really wanted to hear you

He was still grumbling as he went back to his work, a particularly fiddly contraption he was putting together with the Silver Eve procession in mind. He had already been growing tired before the interruption by Coco, having gotten precious little sleep over the past few days while he'd been working abroad and traveling, but now he found himself distracted too. His nose continued to tickle, no matter how much he swiped at it with the heel of his hand or the knob of his wrist, and after a few minutes of it he found himself teetering on the edge of a sneeze.

It was a relief when it finally crossed that invisible line, and he pushed back from his desk to catch the sneeze in the crook of his elbow. "hh'USHhoo!"

He froze there for a moment, waiting to see if a second was coming. When the sensation began to fade, he resurfaced, sniffling and blinking watering eyes.

If it had just been the single sneeze, he wouldn't have thought much of it, but several of them came upon him in the same manner over the next few hours, which was unusual enough outside of hayfever season that it gave him pause.

Maybe he was getting a cold. He'd just go to bed early (-er than usual) and hope he could sleep it off.

When the morning came and he felt fine again, he assumed that was what had happened. He'd been lucky, for once. Maybe he should start doing this (sleeping) more often.

He even went down to have a late breakfast with Qifrey and the girls, who he could hear chattering in the main room as he made his way over from his tower. Qifrey was working with Coco and Tetia on peeling some vegetables for a stew that Agott was poring over on the stove, while Richeh set about measuring out spices. The brushbuddy poked its head up from Richeh's shoulder when Olruggio entered the room and gave a cheerful "Pwee!~" in greeting, as if it was still appreciative of him drying it off the night before.

"Olly!" Qifrey said cheerfully. "Fancy seeing you up and about before noon."

"Yeah, yeah." Olruggio went over to dish up some of the sliced fruits left on the counter from the girls' breakfasts. "Got things to do, ya know."

The rest of the morning passed in quiet contentment, with the girls studying in their own workspaces and Qifrey puttering around collecting and setting herbs to dry in the kitchen. After Olruggio finished his breakfast, he decided to also bring his in-progress contraption down to the main room. He generally preferred to do his work in solitude, but Qifrey wasn't bothersome, and in fact Olruggio found that he did tend to get more work done when he was around. Something about the quiet familiarity of occupying the same space as Qifrey put him in the proper creative mindset.

However, after a few hours of work, he returned to the main room from a break to find that the brushbuddy had curled up on his draft signs, drawn no doubt to the drying conjuring ink. It was definitely cute, Olruggio thought as he approached the furry white creature curled into a cozy spiral, but it was still in the way.

"Go on now, get," he said gently, reaching out to nudge the brushbuddy with the back of his hand when it opened a sluggish eye. "Go find one of the girls."

It uncurled with a grumbly squeak and hopped from the table, then rippled across the floor towards Tetia and Richeh's rooms, where it knew it would be more welcome. Olruggio brushed some stray fur from his papers and got back to work.

Unfortunately his productivity was doomed to stay fractured, because a few minutes later, his nose began to itch again. It started as a tingle in the very tip, but as he sniffled and scrubbed at his nose with his finger with little luck, the tickle grew and spread until his sinuses were buzzing with it.

Finally, his nose had had enough, and he leaned away from his work to sneeze heavily towards his shoulder, elbow half-raised in anticipation. "hrUSHHhoo!"

But this one required a follow-up, he realized quickly, and he snapped towards his shoulder once more. "USHHieu!"

"Bless you!" Qifrey called from the kitchen.

Olruggio ignored him; Qifrey always seemed to find great pleasure in blessing him when he sneezed, but he knew better than to expect a response from Olruggio in return. But, frustratingly, it wasn't more than five minutes later when he had to sneeze again. He squeezed his eyes shut and brought his elbow to his face again expectantly.

"USHieu!"

"Bless you!"

"hih? — hh'USHieuhh!"

"…Bless you. Are you all right, Olly?"

Olruggio looked up, sniffling wetly, to see Qifrey poking his head around the doorjamb from the kitchen, a half-stripped bundle of sage in his hands.

"I feel fine," Olruggio protested, though a third sneeze had begun to creep up from the back of his thickening sinuses, and he knew he was going to require a handkerchief soon. "Just this blasted sneezing."

"Perhaps you're catching cold?" Qifrey offered with no absence of concern. "You have been traveling a lot lately and wearing yourself down."

"And have another trip coming up this evening," Olruggio said with an irritated cough. His throat did feel a bit off too, though it was more itchy than sore. It felt almost like the way he reacted to grass pollen, though it was the wrong season for it. He wasn't sure quite what was going on.

"I'm sure they'll understand if you can't make it," Qifrey said, though they both knew that wasn't necessarily true. Some of Olruggio's clients could be quite demanding.

Olruggio shrugged. "I'll be all right, no need to worry about me."

The symptoms persisted throughout the early afternoon, until he gave up on working and retreated to his tower to bathe. The steam and humid air helped clear the congestion that had begun to set in, and after he emerged and began to dress for his trip, he found he felt almost normal again.

A bit odd, but he wasn't going to complain about it.

And in a way that continued to be odd, his symptoms completely dissipated over the next few days while he worked with some townspeople in a village to the west. Perhaps it had just been a small cold and he'd gotten over it, he thought, mildly perplexed.

But then, to his consternation, they began again as soon as he returned to the atelier. He was chatting with the girls and Qifrey in the kitchen when the brushbuddy scaled him until it could perch happily on his shoulder, fluffed up and preening as it welcomed him home.

The urge to sneeze swept upon him like a gust of wind, and he took a hurried step back from Qifrey and leaned away for an itchy, irritated sneeze into his elbow. "hrr'USHoo!"

The brushbuddy squealed and clung more tightly to his shoulder with its little black feet, but a second, harsher sneeze dislodged it and sent it skittering across the floor to Coco, who scooped it into her arms, wide-eyed.

"Bless you!" She said, echoed by Agott and Tetia. Qifrey, oddly enough, said nothing at first. It wasn't until Olruggio had found a handkerchief to blow his suddenly running nose that he spoke up.

"Have you considered that you might be allergic to the brushbuddy, Olruggio?" He asked mildly. Tetia looked dismayed, and Coco looked down at the fluffy creature in her arms. "You said you weren't sneezing at all while you were away, and it started back up as soon as you came home."

Olruggio sniffled wetly. "It has been years since I've been around them," he admitted. "And I can't say I've ever lived with one before. It's possible."

"This is horrible!" Tetia cried. "Poor Master Olly!"

"Do we need to…get rid of it?" Coco asked in a tiny voice, her eyes wide as the brushbuddy tried to curl into the smallest ball possible, keening quietly.

"I can manage," Olruggio began to say at the same time as Qifrey said, "There is a medicine that should help with it. It's what you already take in the summer, for the grass pollen."

Ah yes. It tasted foul unless it was in the form of a tea heavily sweetened with honey, and Olruggio was rubbish at remembering to take it, but maybe…

He shrugged. "I can do that. There's no need to get rid of the creature."

"We can make sure to sweep up more often," Agott said quickly. Olruggio was briefly charmed; he hadn't thought that the girl had cared much for the brushbuddy. Perhaps she was speaking more out of concern for her friends than out of her own love for the beast. "We'll make sure the main rooms stay clear of fur."

The brushbuddy had wriggled up onto Coco's shoulder, where it was half-hidden in her hair, but when Olruggio locked eyes with it, it gave a soft "pweeee" that sounded almost apologetic. He rubbed the back of his neck, abashed.

"It'll be fine, girls," he said, and sniffled.

And it was, overall. Taking the tonic, he would occasionally get sniffly or sneeze a few times if the brushbuddy made its way into his tower — apologetic or not, it did seem to be particularly fond of his writing materials, and once or twice his bed — but the girls held up their end of the deal, and they all benefitted from having a stricter cleaning schedule in the atelier.

"They would have been quite sad, if they'd had to get rid of the brushbuddy," Qifrey said one day to Olruggio as they were washing up. Olruggio had sneezed as soon as he'd entered the kitchen — the cooking spices in the air, as like as not — and Qifrey had blessed him merrily as usual. "Thank you."

"And break their hearts?" Olruggio scoffed. "Please. I didn't want apprentices of my own, but that doesn't mean I'm a monster."

Ilya was not, in his own opinion, particularly well-versed in the virtues of patience and grace. He didn’t see any need to be. Hockey was not a patient game, nor a graceful one. It was about being fast, and being aggressive, and being in tune with your team. Which he had a feeling that today, he wasn’t particularly. Because he was being betrayed by every single thing he typically depended upon.

His stick had just broken, and his winger hadn’t been in the right place for a pass, and now the referees were taking fucking forever to decide if they’d actually scored their last goal. Which was a problem because here he was, stuck on the bench, several hundred eyes on him, fighting the urge to cough his lungs out. So no, he had absolutely no patience for the decision being made, nor would he afford the officials the slightest amount of grace to make it, especially if they disallowed the goal, and he had less than no patience or grace for his own body. That was the biggest betrayal of all, that his immune system had allowed him to spend the week bragging about how it was better and stronger than those of the rest of the team, who’d all gone down sick with this stupid cold before he had, and then given up the ghost at the last minute.

Anything that held up the game like this had everyone on edge. The coaches were worrying about the decision, the refs were worrying about how it would be received, the players were worrying about staying warm enough to get right back to the game, and the audience were worrying about getting back to their cars, homes, and babysitters on time. So Ilya wasn’t alone in gnawing frustratedly on his mouthguard, tapping his stick on the boards and just generally looking like the epitome of impatience.

He sniffled, snorted, blinked up at the screen overhead in an attempt to stop his nose from dripping everywhere. The back of his hand, sans glove, had just made contact with his face and started to rub irritably, only two clicks of his nose into what probably would have been twenty, when a rolled up towel was tapped on his shoulder. Ilya glanced up at the equipment manager standing behind him.

“Thangks.”

Settling for pinching his nose through the fabric, fearing that blowing would only enable one of the urges lurking ominously in the back of his nose and throat, and using the excess to wipe the sweat from his brow, he scanned the ice, eyes drifting over to the huddle of officials still reviewing the play. How long could this possibly take? It wasn’t like the goal would make that much difference to the outcome anyway.

Boodram, on his right, held out a water bottle to the Russian without looking, still engaged in conversation with whoever was on his other side. Ilya took it gratefully, replaced his mouthguard, and skied the water into his mouth, taking gulp after gulp, until his throat felt relatively normal again, and then passed it on.

Finally feeling slightly more human, he surveyed the crowd, mostly adorned in the colours of the opposing team, since it was their arena, and mostly absorbed in their own conversations, or their phones, since the ice provided so little entertainment currently. He sniffled, and then sniffled again as he apparently dislodged the precarious balance of mucus filling his nose. It took three more sniffs to keep the tide at bay, and by then he could feel an insistent tickling sensation beginning. Maybe one more sniffle would quell the itch?

Of course one more sniffle only fuelled the itch, as he probably should have predicted, but he had no time to really chasten himself for the stupid choice, as he was immediately, “hKk! kKH!-” sneezing uncovered into open air, as the fit onset without warning. “-hKK! Kkh!-” Confident that he couldn’t be heard over the general noise of the stadium, and that it probably just looked like he’d choked on the water, the blond raised the towel to his face and ducked to conceal the more evidentiary subsequent sneezes. Unfortunately for him, he heard the foreboding swish of skates approaching the bench, and the crowd quieting as he succumbed. “-hKSH! KSHh! hihKSHh!-” The players around him audibly shifted as the official spoke with the coach, trying to hear what the call was going to be. “-hihh…KSHuh! hrrRSHh! hHRSHhUh!”

“Geez, bro,” Bood was facing towards him now, apparently having heard the commotion in the quieted arena, “Bl-”

But the blond had made the stupid decision to look right up at the blinding white ice at the conclusion of the fit, breath immediately stuttering prepensively again.

“hKk! hKK!-” God, it would be nice if he could get the towel over his face before he started doing that, because chances were, he’d be up on the screen at some point, expected to react to the call, and he knew it was far from his most attractive facial expression. “-hKSHh! hihKSHh!-”

“Damn, Roz.”

“-hAHKSHhuh! hihhAHSCHh!”

“Bless you. A lot.” Great, now he’s startled, distracted, and definitely mad because he can’t do his stupid little ritual. Not something that would affect their game in the slightest. It was bad enough that he was playing below his usual level, but did he have to drag the rest of the team down with him?

He straightened, slower this time, panting softly through his mouth, allowing his eyes to adjust to the light before he looked up.

“You alright? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you do that before.”

“Is fine.” When it became clear that the winger was not going to leave him alone, Ilya graced him with a short, gruff answer.

“Don’t tell me you’re coming down with this shit that’s been ploughing through the rest of us. What happened to your-”

“Shh.” Anticipating the chirp, the Russian pointed out to center ice, where the referee was standing. “He will announce call.”

“After reviewing the video-”

…

The goal had been disalllowed. And, as Ilya had predicted, it didn’t matter, they would have lost with or without it. Most of the players still weren’t at 100 percent after succumbing to the illness, and with practices being sparsely populated as people recuperated, they were less of a well-oiled machine, and more of a rusty, misassembled one.

The captain entered the locker room dejected, though his face was its usual mask of neutrality. He dreamed of the hotel room, ordering shitty takeout comfort food, and sitting on the floor of a steamy shower until his skin wrinkled and his sinuses drained, calling Shane, and letting the Canadian’s monotone voice lull him to sleep. But first he had to debrief these dumbasses.

“Okay.” He only bothered to strip out of his skates, jersey, gloves, and helmet before he began, anticipating that undressing might take him a little longer on account of the aching muscles, exhaustion, and slight lightheadedness that had started to characterise any fast or demanding movements. “Was bad game. We know this. You know this. I know this. They-” He pointed in the vague direction of the opposition’s dressing room, “-know this.” Maybe not one of his better speeches but he’d like to see any of the team try and do better under his conditions. “We are sloppy, out of practice, not coordinated. No one is in right place, no one is ever in right place. So many fucking offsides-” It was a rant now, or spiralling into one, and he needed to pull it back. “But we work on this at next practice, we wa-hh-tch-”

He broke off, surprised by the sudden appearance of the tickle, and the concerning way it had interrupted his speech, as though it could strike at any time. “We watch-” Keep going, no one fucking noticed, no one fucking cares. “-for this at next game. You know where the lines a-ahh-” Ah fuck, he’d totally lost it.

For a brief moment he considered turning and running directly back out of the doors to the locker room, inexplicably sprinting for the showers, or just hiding in his stall and holding a towel over his face until he suffocated. But he had no time to do any of those things. And they all seemed pretty panic-inducing for his already out-of-sorts team, and he’d have to explain them afterwards. Also everyone else in the room had been doing this sort of thing, essentially unaddressed, for two weeks. Wasn’t he supposed to be showing them that he was one of them, or human too, or something anyway?

So, he stood his ground, and just- “hKk! Kkh! Kkh!-” Initially he directed the expulsions down at his chest, shoulder shrugging inwards to further cover his face with each jolt, but in the small gap between the third and fourth, he’d looked up and seen a look of total confusion and alarm on the face of the closest player, and realised that it probably looked more like he was choking than sneezing, and so raised his fist performatively to jam under his nose, “-hKk! KSHh! hihKSHHh! hihh… hHSHH! hrRSHh!-”

Dizzy as the lack of oxygen started to get to him, faster than it usually did, probably lingering breathlessness from the game, he bent double and placed his hands on his knees, too tired to even fight it anymore, spraying the floor of the visitors’ locker room, with vitriolic apathy, “hAHISHH! hHAHSHH! hhihh…HEAHSCHOo!”

With a forceful swallow, and a sniff that he intended to restore his sense of self-control and authority, but kind of sounded like he was attempting not to cry, the captain straightened. The faces surrounding him brought back with agonising clarity what Bood had said to him on the bench, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you do that before.” Fuck. And what an introduction to his most chirp-worthy trait. The biggest fit he’d had in a good while, right in the middle of a speech when everyone’s attention was centred on him and only him. Jesus fucking- way to pick the moment, Ilya.

“God bless you, Roz.” Hayes offered. The Russian couldn’t turn to glare at him fast enough, a chorus of blessings, emboldened by the goalie, filled the room.

He sighed, tensely, waiting for the niceties to be over so he could get on with his debrief and head home. But no sooner had the last blessing been voiced, than “You good, cap?”

“Shut the fuck up, Dykstra.”

“I’m just saying. That was a lot.”

“Yeah, I saw him do it on the bench as well, scary stuff,” Bood interjected, “Thought he was gonna stop breathing.”

“I am not going to stop fucking breathing, everything is fine, everyone shut the fuck up.” His hackles were up now, brow furrowed, eyes flashing dangerously.

There was silence for a second, and he was just about to restart the sentence that he totally remembered the end of, when Hayes interrupted again.

“You finally get that bug that we’ve been passing about? Is that why you’re so prickly?”

“Jesus fucking Christ, what is wrong with you? We do not lose because of just me, okay? I come here, I play, I score, why the fuck you so critical?”

And he stormed off into the showers. With his clothes on. And no towel. And they all knew it. Fuck.

…

Ilya scrubbed his hands over his face, eyes squeezed shut as they flooded with warm shower water. He didn’t fight the stinging sensation the foreign liquid left under his eyelids, focusing on dragging his fingertips down his face as hard as he could, imagining the red marks he was leaving, imagining he could cleanse the humiliation and frustration of the evening from his mind, his soul, his reputation.

The steam was making his nose run. He didn’t care, picking up the fallout on his next angry swipe of his hands past his upper lip, holding his hands out ahead of him in the spray for a second to wash it off, and starting again at his forehead. He wasn’t really trying to get clean, just killing time until the awkwardness of the post-game speech dissipated, and a few more people filtered through to shower, so that he could walk back stark naked like he didn’t care that every single other player was watching him. Fucking foresight, Ilya, why do you never think before you do anything?

He startled when the shower next to him turned on, suddenly feeling vulnerable with his burning, waterlogged eyes, audibly rasping breath as the steam loosened the congestion in his lungs, and lack of a proper exit strategy. Ilya tilted his head down, letting the water hit the back of his head, wiped his eyes, blinked through the pain, and squinted at the figure beside him.

“Just me.” Hayes. Nice of him to announce himself after Ilya had gone to all the effort of trying to see for himself who it was.

He didn’t respond, starting to wash his body off instead, staring straight ahead as the water plastered his hair to his forehead.

The silence rang between them. More people filtered through to shower. Ilya counted each entry as the showers kicked on, one after another. He had no idea who specifically had joined them-

“hyEHSCHH! AHSCHUh!”

Okay, so one of them was Dykstra, but apart from that-

“Bless you and bless you.” Fine, and Boodram. Anyway, as he’d been trying to think, before he’d been interrupted, it didn’t matter. It was a numbers game. He needed more people in here or out in the corridor than in the locker room. Less people to see his walk of shame-

“I brought you a towel.” The goaltender spoke up again, jerking his thumb towards the hooks behind them.

“Thanks.” Now shut the fuck up and shower.

“Pretty essential part of showering.” He joked, tentatively.

Ilya snorted, amusement acting as passive approval, Hayes’ expression immediately turning more serious.

“Listen, cap, if you’re sick-”

The blond slapped the handle to turn the spray off, suddenly seething with anger, the goalie’s face changing again to betray how taken aback he was. “I am fucking fin-” The word caught harshly in his throat, a sudden coughing fit overpowering him, echoing off the tiled walls. Ilya slammed his fist over his mouth, muffling the sound, bending double as his lungs spasmed violently, and he hacked harsh breaths against his damp knuckles.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hayes’ hand move. It occurred to him, at about the same time, that he could barely see the movement, noticing a fuzzy, hazing effect on the edges of his vision, that left his peripheral blurry and unclear. Mind split between the observation and the agonisingly endless fit, Ilya reverted to instinct and flinched away from him.

Wyatt froze. The captain tensed. Fuck. He wasn’t going to hit you, idiot. He probably wasn’t even going to touch you, given you’re both buck naked and soaking wet and you’re known for acting like a cornered animal at the best of times. And now he thinks you’re scared to be hit, like some kind of fucking pathetic little child. You get hit for a living, asshole, toughen up.

Ilya straightened, swallowing the tail end of the fit. He didn’t look at Hayes, face a steely mask of anger that he hoped looked like it was directed at the goaltender, rather than its real target, himself.

“Rozanov-”

“Fuck off. Is not your fucking business.” He retrieved the towel Wyatt had brought him, wrapped it around his waist, and stalked back to his stall, pulling his water bottle from his bag and sitting down heavily to half-drain it without looking at anyone.

…

Most of the team had showered and changed, falling easily into their own conversations and distractions once it became clear that the captain was done with any kind of drama for the evening, by the time that Ilya started to think about putting his clothes back on. His skin had long since air dried, his hair about halfway there, the ends still dripping cold water onto his neck, and arms, and phone screen.

He stared at the text thread with Shane blankly. They hadn’t messaged since the first intermission, and he knew that Montréal had won their game. So he wasn’t overly eager to interrupt the celebrations with his woeful complaints of embarrassment and humiliation.

“Hey.”

Ilya pressed the button to turn the phone screen off at a speed that felt like it outdid any of his shots on the ice that game, head snapping up to look at the man who’d just spoken. Dykstra sat in the stall to his left, its owner having already left for the shuttle back to the hotel. The captain relaxed a tiny, imperceptible amount. The defenseman was not someone he’d be overly worried about snooping on his phone conversations.

“What?” He responded, guardedly.

“Just wanted to make sure you’re all good. Not in front of everyone, this time.”

“I am good.” He swallowed dryly, eyes wandering the rest of the room to check that the check-in really wasn’t in front of everyone, but no one else seemed to be paying the two of them any mind.

“Alright, man. But as someone who’s had this shit that’s been going around- not that you’ve got it- it hits pretty hard, so, it might be helpful to-” He held out his hand, closed around something. Reluctantly, Ilya presented him with an open palm to take it.

The defenseman dropped a cut off section of a blister pack of pills into his hand, four. Ilya stared at the orange capsules, distastefully. He didn’t like their weight in his hand, the unnatural shade that looked like it wasn’t intended for human consumption, didn’t like the idea of being expected to take them, to thank him for them, didn’t like the immediate sensations his brain conjured up, plasticky casing buckling on his tongue, acrid chemicals in the back of his throat, images he’d tried to forget flooding his mind- he sniffled as his tear ducts stung, staring blankly at his hand as Evan stared patiently at him.

A few short, silent seconds passed. Ilya floated a thousand miles from his mind, so far removed from his body that he no longer had any idea where he was, lost in the fog of dissociation. Flickers of the past day, week, year appeared and then vanished as his consciousness searched for some kind of anchor to keep him from drifting into more dangerous memories. Then his lungs stuttered back to life, a long, staggered breath drawn in sharply. His surroundings came back into focus. Faced with only a few moments to discern the automated reason behind his abrupt inhale, the blond panicked. Was he about to say something? To yell at the defenseman for his presumption? Was he about to break into full-blown panic? To cry? Or-?

“KKh!” The only reason he hadn’t sneezed directly on, or really at, Dykstra, was because his head had subconsciously started to turn away a few seconds earlier, responding on impulse to a pain in his neck at keeping his head craned at that angle for so long. “-hKk! Kkh! Kk!-”

He faintly heard the other man mutter, “Oh.” and then some moving and shifting that he assumed was him getting up to leave. He was wrong.

“-hKSHh! Ksh!-”

And then there was a tissue pressed in his free hand. The Russian forced his eyes open mid-fit to check. Yeah, definitely a tissue. And Dykstra’s hand retreating in his peripheral. What the fuck?

“-hKSHH!-” It took him one more sneeze to realise that he should probably be using the tissue, rather than just holding on to it as though he’d been told to keep it safe at all costs, and the rest of the fit to realise that, “-hKSHuh!-” to place the tissue in Ilya’s hand, the defenseman had had to, “-hihKSH!-” reach over him, “-hihh… sSCHh!-” and so he’d almost definitely, “-hRSHH! rRRSHHuH!” had his arm…

“G’ bless you.” The captain looked up, seeing that the Canadian was occupied holding a tissue of his own, swiping nonchalantly at his wrist …directly in the line of fire. Fuck. Fucking disgusting, Ilya.

“Sorry.” The word came out thick with congestion, and swathed in his accent, so strong that it was noticeable even to himself.

“No worries, man. Just, you know- maybe you’ll feel better if you take the-” He nudged the hand that still held the blister pack of pills, indicatively. Feel better? Feel fucking better? What the fuck was that supposed to mean? Would the drugs make him play better too?

“No!” Ilya spoke louder than he needed to, drawing the eyes of even those who’d politely deigned to look away during the fit, though the locker room was almost empty now, anyway. “Take your fucking shit-” He threw the pills back at him, muscles clenched to stop himself from shaking, “-and leave me the fuck alone.”

He stood, praying the towel would hold as he turned to rifle through his bag, dragging out a hoodie, and pulling it on, drawing a hand through his damp hair to try to calm himself, feeling his heart pumping hard in his chest, ignoring the careful way the defenseman backed away in his peripheral vision, returning to his own stall. Feeling painfully out of place, he finished changing, retrieved his things and stormed from the room, chest tight with anxiety, alternating between dropping his head to his chest in dejection and tilting it back to try and glean a tiny amount more oxygen as he walked. He could not imagine a worse way for that fucking game to have ended if he tried. And he had a sinking feeling that he’d be spending most of the night trying.

…

“Hang on.”

Ilya stared at the smooth, white, hotel room ceiling as he listened to Shane fiddling with a tupperware of some kind on the other end of the line. Once all the clips had been snapped back into place, his voice became less distant again.

“Alright, sorry, I’m back. Mom gave me these wholewheat cracker things, I think Dad baked them, and they’re pretty good, but there’s a lot of them.” The blond heard him pad softly through into the living room, and flop down on the sofa. “I tried to give some to Hayden, but he said-”

Evidently not keen to find out what bullshit Pike had said in response to the offer, Ilya ducked away from the phone, coughing roughly against his fist. Lying on his back had not done wonders for the congestion lingering in his chest. He forced himself upright over the course of the unexpectedly long fit, gradually, vertebra by vertebra, until he was hunched forwards.

Fifteen full seconds of violent coughing later, the Russian swallowed phlegmily, and raised the phone back to his ear, ignoring the darkness that had sprung up at the edges of his vision.

“Fucking hell,” Shane sounded shaken. “Are you okay?”

“Pike said this? Rude.” Ilya smiled weakly. “Could have just said ‘no’.”

“Shut up, stop joking around. What’s wrong?”

“Is nothing.” He stood, breathing heavily through his mouth as dizziness swelled within him, and the congestion shifted in his head with a click that he was sure was audible through the phone. “Same thing team had last week.”

“Fuck. Why didn’t you say anything? You played, right? How the hell did you play?”

“Badly.” He mumbled, dragging his feet the short distance to the bathroom and filling a glass with water from the tap.

“That’s not what I meant.” The ‘and you know it’ went unsaid, but Ilya still felt it, and the accompanying pang of guilt for twisting his boyfriend’s words. “You have the same thing that fucked LaPointe over so badly you had to leave him in Florida for two extra days, and you played through?”

The blond finished chugging his glass of water and refilled it, phone held between his shoulder and his ear. “Is not so bad.”

There was a long pause. Ilya downed a second glass of water. “Does the team know?” The brunet asked finally.

“Yes.” He scowled at his reflection. “Did not want them to, but-” The rest of the sentence was lost to a huffed out breath as the memory of the locker room flashed through his mind.

“Was it okay?” If anyone would understand the stress of letting his team know he was sick, it was Shane. They had the same pressure on them, as captains, as star players, as the cornerstones of their respective teams. They had the same weird wall of secrets between them and their fellow players that stopped them from getting close enough for admissions of vulnerability to feel normal or comfortable. Plus, the Canadian was always kind of weird when he talked about illness anyway, even with Ilya, cagey in the same way he got about his sexuality or their relationship, or-

“I do not know. Maybe they are mad, or disappointed? Is not helpful.” He filled the glass again, more out of habit than desire this time.

“What’s not helpful? Their response, or the illness?”

“Illness, yes. They were very…helpful.” Guilt clawed up his throat again at the memory of all the outstretched hands he’d smacked away, in the showers, in his stall, on the bus to the hotel…

“It’s not your fault you’re sick, you know? It can’t be helped.”

“I fucking wish it c-hh-” Ilya froze, glass halfway to his mouth again, as the tickle that he hadn’t been able to fully shake since the first fit in the locker room, made its presence known again. Focusing on lowering it back to the counter without spilling any water, he attempted to update his boyfriend through jagged breaths, “I h-ahh-ave t-uhHh-o sn-iHHhihh-snee-”

“Okay, I got it, you don’t have to tell me.” Shane sounded strangely ruffled, “You can…you can go ahead and-”

“Snee-ihHKK!-ze. kKh! hKk!-” He dragged the collar of his hoodie up over his mouth, first knuckle under his nose, phone still absently pressed to his ear, “hKSH! KSHh! hKSHh! hihKSHhuh!-” He broke off to cough, bent double now, trying to square his stance as he swayed, disorientated, breath catching again before he could catch it himself and, “hihhkSHH! hrRSHh! hihh…hhH…hyAHSHHhOo!”

The final sneeze had him crashing to his knees, curled in a ball on the bathroom floor, breathing heavily through his mouth as his nose dripped all over his hand, still loosely holding his collar over his spray-glazed lips.

“Bless you. Fuck, you sound awful.” The brunet whispered through the phone as though afraid to disturb the silence that had fallen in the wake of the fit.

“Feel awful.” He responded before he could stop himself.

“I bet. God I wish I was there with you.”

“Me too.” And he really did wish, visualising his boyfriend with his eyes squeezed shut and his breath baited in his chest, making himself believe that when he looked up at the bathroom doorway, he’d see the brunet standing there, making that awful, pitying face at him.

There was a knock on the door. Ilya startled, eyes flying open, phone falling from his hand. Shane?

He fumbled for a face towel, running it under his nose, scrubbing at his hand as he rose to his feet, wincing at the pins and needles in his legs, hobbling to the door. Fuck, how long had he been sitting there?

Ilya unlocked the hotel room door, heart quickening, not bothering to look through the peep hole before he flung it open. His wish had come true, he wouldn’t have to go through this alone, he had Shane, he had-

The hallway was empty. The blond’s stomach rolled with dread. Had he misheard? Was this some kind of prank? But then his gaze drifted downwards, to the small, rectangular container sitting in front of the door. One of the baskets for the face towels, from the en suite bathroom, and it was filled with-? Ilya bent down. A bunch of random stuff? Trash?

He looked closer. On top sat a piece of paper from the notepad that sat beside the beds, the hotel name and logo at the top, scrawly writing beneath. ‘Captain. The essentials, just in case you don’t have any.’ and then, in different handwriting, ‘If you need anything, you know where we are.’ and finally, in block capitals that could have been either of the two priors or another person entirely, ‘WE’RE A TEAM.’

Ilya snatched the basket from the floor, glanced in both directions, checking if he was being watched, and ducked back inside his room, walking over to the bed, heart pounding in his chest, and emptying the container onto the clean, white, backdrop of the comforter.

He’d been provided with; two travel packs of tissues, different brands- possibly different people’s contributions?-; the exact cut off corner of cold meds Dykstra had tried to give him earlier; a second sheet, of blue pills that he assumed were the night-time version; a packet of throat lozenges that loudly proclaimed they contained vitamin c and zinc; two teabags with labels in French; and several loose smelling salt ampules. What the fuck?

Impulsive and uncoordinated as a wild animal, he swiped angrily at the array, sending items flying across the bed and tumbling to the floor. This was a joke, a mockery, an insult. They were chirping him, provoking him- no, worse…could they be… pitying him? The blond snarled at the empty room, the note lying face up on the floor, closing message mocking him. They were a team, so he needed to pull himself together and do his part. Or, they were a team, and he wasn’t a part of it, some tacked on extra, the figurehead that no one really connected with, a misfit.

The dissonance of multiple interpretations crowded his mind, and he unconsciously backed away from the bed, the humiliating necessities that had been thrust upon him, the blame, the pity, the anxiety. He hardly noticed his breathing pick up, harsh, ragged breaths as adrenaline flooded his system. Two emotions fought for monopoly in his chest, anger winning out. How fucking dare they? How dare they assume he was sick, assume he was helpless, give him things like he was a child, an invalid, an idiot. How dare they- he stumbled into the bathroom, seeking his abandoned cup of water, but being confronted by his phone on the floor, screen still illuminated with the ongoing call. Fuck, Shane.

“-can hear me, you’d better fucking reply-” He was saying as Ilya fumbled the device to his ear, voice quick with anxiety, audibly pacing the kitchen as the blond could hear the sound of his bare feet against the tile.

“I’m here.”

“Fuck, Ilya, what happened? I thought you passed out or something!”

“No, I went to answer door.”

“There was someone at your door?”

Now that he was having to slow down and explain what had happened, forcing his brain through the achingly elongated process that was translating it back to comprehensible English, the anger and adrenaline were beginning to ebb away, leaving a drained, overwhelming exhaustion in their place. “No, was just- team leave me stupid sick person stuff.”

“What?”

“Does not matter. I am fine. You had big game, should rest. Talk tomorrow.”

“Wait, Ily-”

“Love you.” He hung up, not even giving Shane the chance to say it back.

Ilya turned his phone off and slumped to the floor, hiking his knees up and resting his forehead against them. Fuck this whole day, fuck the game, fuck him for thinking things would get better once he left the arena, fuck this illness, fuck everything.

He sniffled, unsurprised to discover that his eyes were…watering. He wasn’t crying, he was just tired and sick and sometimes that made your eyes water…right. It made his eyes water and his chest ache and his breathing all juddery and his nose run, and- he sniffled again, head immediately tilting back at the sharp itching sensation that the movement had awoken.

“hKk! HkK! Kk! hKk! hhKSH!-” He let his head snap forwards against his bicep, hating the way the sound echoed in the small room, but still feeling like he’d be less likely to be heard in here than out in the bedroom, “hKSHh! KSHH! hihSHHh! huHSHhh! hihhuhH…” The last sneeze was temporarily delayed by the tears sliding down his cheeks, face aimed towards the ceiling, breath hitching with what were undeniably sobs as he inadvertantly increased his own discomfort, saltwater dripping into his ears and down his neck, every tiny pitiful noise reflected back at him mockingly by the tiled walls, “hhihh…hhiEhh… hAHKSHHhoo!”

And he buried his face in the sleeve of his hoodie and sobbed, silently. Every breath tore at his raw throat, burdened his aching lungs, every shudder of his frame jolted his damaged muscles and swollen joints, and his face was totally soaked in tears and snot, the fabric pressed against it having done all it could to mop up the endless tide. And Ilya felt nothing but torment, and his mind went nowhere but to everything he’d done to deserve it- the game, the speech, snapping at his teammates, pushing Shane away- and even before that, every mistake he could remember making, that had garnered him this bad karma, warranted this punishment.

His sobs slowed through the methodical search for wrongdoing, more focused on his mistakes than his misery, until it finally all came to a shuddering stop. And his mind strayed to the team, the offering. Maybe he should stop wallowing in this and try to fix it. That seemed to be what they wanted him to do. The captain dragged himself to his feet, ignoring the pressure in his chest, the way his heart skipped up to a higher rate uncomfortably quickly, the wave of unbearable heat that washed over him, and stumbled through into the bedroom. He could fix this. He would fix this. And he would play the next game, and they would win. And then no one would be mad anymore, and they could all forget that this had ever happened.

The second Hollander thrusts open the grating metal of the door, Ilya rushes up the stairs. He's shoving him back as they race up the stairwell in tandem.

Fuck. He’s missed him so much. He never misses any hookup like this. That’s a very big problem for another day. Because tonight he’s going to fuck Hollander. He’s always so eager for him. Ilya would never say he was the best at sex, if that can be quantified. He’s not the most experienced. Still, somehow, Hollander has made his way to the top of Ilya’s chart of conquests. 

His favourite, unquestionably.

He lets Hollander lead them into his place, fighting off a lingering shiver as he finally gets warm. 

“Fuck, Rozanov,” Hollander has him pressed against the door immediately, hands searching. He can feel his breath over cheek and his calloused fingertips searching under his sweatshirt.

“You took so long to get me,” Ilya complains, not reciprocating quite yet. He swipes his nose on his hoodie sleeve, pressing it there another second and rubbing to get the itch out. It’s running almost as bad as it was on the ice earlier, cold air always turns his congestion to a faucet. 

“Sorry. I was taking a shower...” Hollander trails off in lieu of further explanation. The shame in his voice paired with his hungry eyes means that Hollander has fully-prepped. He’s worked himself clean and open because he knew Ilya was coming. 

Ilya leers at him, wolfish, mouth inches from Hollander. His perfect fucking lips and straight nose and constellation of freckles fill up his vision and he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

“You are always so excited for my cock,” he praises, compliment punctuated with a soupy sniffle. 

Hollander’s sweet eyes glisten with want and he chases after Ilya’s mouth. 

Too bad that Ilya has a moral compass, so he has to stop him. 

“Ah–” Ilya shakes his head and holds his fingertips over Hollander’s mouth before he can reach his lips. “I am sick.”

This breaks every rule in Hollander’s book, surely. Hooking up with a sick person. Ilya has still come over, but he’s waiting to be pushed off and glared at. Maybe he will offer Ilya tea before he kicks him out. Polite Canadian Shane Hollander. He probably schedules his illnesses for the off-season. He definitely doesn’t invite them in from secret hook-ups.

Instead, Hollander surprises him. He frowns and doesn’t push him away. His eyes flick over Ilya’s face. He’s surely staring at the pinkened tip of his nose, the way it scrunches as Ilya has to sniffle again. Playing over their game in his mind, dissecting every time Ilya wiped his nose while on the bench. 

“Do you have a fever?” 

“Nyet.” Ilya confirms this with a shake of his head. “Is just in my nose. Headcold, they say,” he accentuates this for Hollander with a liquid sniffle and pouts at him. 

“Worse now, maybe, because you made me stand outside so long. Waiting for you.” 

Hollander gives him a long, nervous look. The racing thoughts are so visible on his face. Ilya thinks he might be able to reach out and read his mind if he only presses his fingers to his temples. 

He tests this with a double-tap of his fingers to the side of Shane’s brow.. 

“Do not worry, Hollander. My dick still works perfectly.”

He watches for another moment as his expression changes from apprehensive to decidedly needy and smirks. Ah. Maybe it did work.

And Hollander is throwing himself against him so hard their teeth clack together. 

__

Ilya is thrusting hard into Hollander, one hand bracing over his back and the other on the swell of his ass he fucks him into the mattress. 

“Fuck,” he pants, mind swimming in pleasure. Not only English, but all language leaves him when they’re like this. Hollander is so perfect. He thinks he could fuck only him for the rest of his life. He’s so eager for it, so responsive under him. He groans again as he drags his cock back and then forces back in. 

Hollander makes a pretty sound, so he tries to go for the same angle. 

“Fuuck. Snff. Hollander.” 

His nose is running. He knows. It’s running down over his cupid's bow and into his panting mouth. One brave drip comes off his chin and mixes with the sweat at the dimples of Hollander’s back. He sniffles fruitlessly in between gasps. Hollander feels so good. Perfect. Ilya’s felt his cock work inside countless holes, but Hollander’s always makes him need it more. He has never finished fucking him and not wanted to do it again. 

He’s getting into the rhythm. Sniffle, gasp, babble out something coherent. He wishes he could kiss him.

Hollander’s affirmative moans of pleasure are driving him further into a heady pleasure when a sneeze overtakes him. 

"Hheh-- a'dczh'UUoo!"

He ducks his head as it mists over Hollander’s back, not wanting to stop if he doesn’t have to. 

He sniffles, launched into another three more sneezes. They spill out of him, each competing to be first. He ends on a truly pathetic gasp for breath and a dz'iew of a final sneeze.

Well. He sucks back his mucus. There are more important things to focus on.

“You’re gross,” Hollander mutters below him. 

Ilya halts their movement and pulls his hand from its place at Shane’s hip so he can pinch and rub at his septum. It feels fucking euphoric and he allows an indulgent sniffle as he rubs the whole of his palm up at his nose. 

“Oh, I am gross? Shane Hollander likes to lick my cum from his own fingers, but I am not allowed to sneeze?” 

That said – he grabs a hand wildly over for the first article of clothing he can find and presses it to his face, releasing two – oh, no, three. Three more sneezes.

Wait. 

His abdomen tenses with a fourth sneeze into the fabric. This broken nose is never satisfied. He groans to himself as he pinches his septum against the fabric.

He gasps, fighting off dizzying congestion. His head is so stuffy he almost feels bad, if he’s passing this to Hollander. But he said yes. And Ilya was able to play with this cold, so it should be nothing to the unstoppable force of Shane Hollander. 

He blows his nose into the cloth and tosses it aside with cough to clear his throat, then presses his hands back into place. 

“Bless you,” Hollander mumbles.

Ilya grips for the side of Hollander’s chin, squeezes it once. He still really wants to kiss him. 

“Shut up.”

__ 

He’s noticeably more hoarse than when he arrived as he wipes Hollander down with a damp washcloth and murmurs praises. He’d been honest with him earlier – it’s really just a cold, barely an issue beyond a nuisance. 

Still, he feels thoroughly wrung out as he flops back on the bed beside Hollander. Into sheets that he knows smell like him. Any other time, where his nose was working, he’d press his face into the pillowcase and drink him in. Hollander smells so good after sex. Sweaty. Musky. The distinct scent of man that Ilya wants to lap up. He wants to press his flat tongue over his armpits and the fold of his groin and the small expanse of skin where his pecs jut out over his chest. 

Instead, he itches his wrist under his nose and presses up as he sniffles a few times. This cold has left him with much more of a drippy nose than he would like to admit. 

“D’you need to go?” Hollander murmurs as he actively winds himself more around Ilya. 

He should go. “Yes,” he laments, praying that the want doesn’t show in his voice. 

“Goodnight, Hollander.” He detangles himself, stands up and collects his clothes.

As he’s slipping in his hoodie, Hollander sits up in bed, risen from the newly-fucked dead, and shoves a packet of tissues at him. 

“For your cold,” Hollander says in one big breath. His hair is plastered to his forehead. His eyes are sincere.

Ilya laughs and waves him goodnight. He clutches his hand around the plastic of the tissues as he shoves it further into his pocket. He has a feeling he will carry it with him.

__

Shane heads to the team doctor. He does not want to, but he has to. He can count on less than one hand the amount of times he’s gotten sick during a season.

“Uh,” he sniffles and resents as the sound drags in his sinuses, “I have a cold? I think? Or, uh, rhinovirus?” His heart pounds his chest with a steady thrum of betrayal. You caught a cold from Ilya Rozanov of the Boston Bears. 

Rozanov. 

It makes him miss him, which is all kinds of weird and fucked up as he blows his nose and thinks Ilya did this when I saw him last.

The doctor is perfectly reasonable. Checks his temperature, listens to his chest. Confirms he’s good to go. Advises fluids, a decongestant before bed, doesn’t mince words and tells him he’s got a runny nose that’s only going to get worse on the ice and should have towels on hand.

It’s all the more embarrassing when Shane has to come back into the locker room. He’s been cleared for the game, but he’s late in.

“You good?” Hayden asks, thumping him on the back as they change into gear. 

“Yeah,” Shane says, and has to sniffle or it will dribble onto his upper lip. 

“Glad to hear it, man.” 

“I’m good, yeah.”

“You sneezed so much earlier, man,” Hayden shakes his head, sifting through his bag. “Thought you were down for the count. Like, fuck. Flu or something.” 

“All good,” Shane assures him. 

He’s blushing everywhere. He doesn’t sneeze a lot. Like, ever. If he does, he knows the right way to press his knuckle to his nose or his tongue in his mouth and make it quiet. But Ilya never sneezes that way. And this is the cold he got from Ilya. It feels like he’s still around, even when he’s hundreds of miles away. 

Impulsively, he shoots out a text. 

Jane: I got your cold, asshole. 

Immediately, a reply.

Lily: Sorry (((

Lily: but i did enjoy that asshole ))

Jane: fuck off

Lily: feel better Jane <3 

During the game, his phone gets more texts, buzzing as it’s tucked into his bag. 

Lily: maybe i did do biological warfare

Lily: you cannot stop sneezing. Funny they must have cleared you just for you to spend every pause like little scrunched up kitten 

Lily: i almost feel bad. 

Lily: but no. you wanted me to fuck you so bad you have to be sick now.